We Can Only Imagine

I was born at the end
of winter's breath,
spring a
sweet taste on my tongue,
something to anticipate,
the blinding hospital lights
a beacon,
a full moon,
linoleum slick like sea glass,
the silver of stirrups,
a cold ocean foam,
her breath heavy and controlled.

Up Angeles Crest,
coyotes howled for tomorrow
and south,
towards shore,
a single jellyfish rose softly,
her transparent limbs
nothing but hope,
a phosphorescent glow
spinning gracefully
towards home.

lice and hunting in Montana

It’s a gray, Missoula Sunday.  My husband woke at an ungodly hour in search of elk that supposedly bugle somewhere up Rock Creek.  My four year old found me a few hours later, asking to snuggle.  Instead of holding him like I longed to, I reminded him about the lice, made him go to the other side of the bed and strip the sheets back, throw the pillow to the floor.  I then adjusted my shower cap.

It’s been a really long, hard week.

My husband and I are both educators.  We have two small children who attend the same school where we both work.  This week was parent/teacher conferences, meaning early mornings, late afternoons and very focused, intense conversations.  Lice has been circling through the school as it tends to do.  My husband, ever the vigilant Virgo, has been sure we’ve had it countless times.  He was finally right.

So here’s where I am today.  Full of gratitude that it’s only lice, absolutely exhausted because the little things that I count on — the ability to get into a cozy bed at night, hang up my coat, brush my hair, take a bath with my children — can’t be had right now.  I have done more laundry than I ever imagined possible, watched my daughter scream as my husband painstakingly works through her thick, tangled curls in search of microscopic mites.

On top of this, we’ve had two dead deer hanging in our garage, begging, ever so pathetically, hauntingly, to be dealt with.  My man still hasn't finished the butchering of one and now he’s off for more.  Yes, this is Montana. Yes, we appreciate the meat.  But shoot.  I just want a little down time.  What’s up with all the random creatures?

My son calls from the other room, wants me to see his new castle.  My daughter comes in to my sacred space and finds an old stick of incense, lights it on the wick of my candle and starts dancing around like she’s at some weird, trippy rave.  She asks me what I’m doing and I tell her I’m trying to take a writing class.  I suggest she put down the fire stick and do something equally creative.  They are now sitting on the kitchen counter with uncapped markers, old rolls of tape and paper scraps.  I appreciate their creativity.  And then I think about how I just swept that area of floor.

My sparkle feels a bit dim now.  I feel overworked and run down.  I feel raw and exhausted and on edge.  Now my son wants me to help him re tape his sculpture and my daughter has unrolled my yoga mat right next to me.

I want them to do something fabulous and productive and educational and independent.  I don't want to worry about anything other than love in their heads.  I want to sit and write and stretch and go for a long hike in the woods alone. 

But, alas, this is the moment I have.

hiking club

Life keeps blowing us forward, fast and furious.  After a midnight arrival on Sunday night, I was back at it Monday morning the hampers full of laundry to fold and put away and my overflowing work inbox, dueling subjects for most in need of attention.  From there the week barreled on and I felt myself fraying at the edges.  By Wednesday night, Solomon's midnight hacking cough grated at my patience instead of my compassion.  "Can you just try not to cough?"  I begged him.  Parenting at it's finest.

When he woke up the next morning, eyes crusted shut and swollen with goop, I realized he was actually pretty sick.  Mega pink eye and a nasty earache were affirmed and our week took a little shift.  Instead of ignoring the chores at home to wade through the work at school, I settled into both.  Jeff and I traded out, me at school, then back when I didn't have class, then at the doctors.  When she let us know that he wouldn't be returning to school on Thursday either, we did what most sane people do, and called in a sub.  A mid-week, open day with my boy.  Too contagious to go to school, but with it enough to enjoy a day at home with his mama. 

I forget how fast we move until we stop.  Our day together was glorious.  Glorious in that laundry folding, closet organizing, block building kind of way.  I have kind of neglected the full-time job that is, "Keeping A Home" since returning to work in September.  The drawers needed a clean-out, the coat closet an overhaul.  When I checked the weather and read that a frost was heading in this weekend, I decided that itchy eyes and I needed to get outside. 

I've said it before, but there's nothing better than being outside with Solomon.  He can be a royal pain in the ass about eating anything healthy.  He has a terrible case of the gimmies most times we go anywhere that sells anything.  But put that boy in the woods, or by a river, or at the sea, and you see the most present, creative and lovely little man. 

As we walked, I asked Soli what sort of activities he'd want to do when he got a bit older.  Eliana's been busy this fall with soccer, ballet, and most recently, rock climbing, so he's hearing all about the offerings of our full little community.  Soli didn't miss a beat. 

Oh, I just want to be in hiking club.

Hiking club?  Hmmm. 

Oh, Soli!  That sounds awesome.  Tell me more about hiking club.

Oh, you know mom, we hike and stop and have snacks.  I could, like, pack my backpack with some Halloween candy and, like, all my swords.  And we can have meetings by the birdhouse.  And it can be our special club.  Just ours.  Not Ellie's or dad's.

Homeboy is a crazy talker when his sister isn't around.  

So we started hiking club.  We had our first meeting under the ponderosas by the birdhouse.  We talked about what we were thankful for in nature.  We had some m and m's.  We slayed some tall grass with our swords.  We had races and Soli let me beat him up the hill (he knows I'm an atrocious runner). 

Hiking club has met twice more since Thursday.  We've jumped in leaves and slid down boulders and crawled like cheetahs through the underbrush.  There has been no complaining, no negativity, no whining. 

Now don't ask me what it was like when I tried to feed him dinner tonight.  Don't ask how the car ride was to Costco this afternoon.  Tonight I choose to focus on homeboy's hiking club.  His love of adventure, his love of the wild and my love for him. 

80 years

Complete, or,

For My Mom, at Eighty

She takes all of me.

I’m a little sprout somewhere

deep inside her universe.

Deep inside,

a single woman,

a third baby.

She takes all of me.

She takes all of me.

The rocking horse flies across the room in rage.

I hide behind the sofa, face pressed into velour,

decide I will not go to school.

She reaches down and lifts me up.

Takes me.

She takes all of me.

The eye that won’t stay still

 and writhing belly aches.

I can’t seem to learn my multiplication tables and

she takes me, a record of sea sounds and a

swaying crystal:  Six threes are eighteen,

seven threes are twenty one.

The slow and steady mantra,

her accent clear and all-knowing.

When she snaps her fingers,

she’s done it again. 

All of me in her hands.

She takes all of me,

the exuberance and mess,

pink glasses and pixie cut,

grass stains on my white jeans that she

advised me not to where while skating.

She takes all of me.

Chicken pox in a high rise hotel room,

on the last day, she lets me lie in the back of

a yellow cab, look up at all the skyscrapers,

takes me as I am.

She takes all of me.

The sudden changes,

a date at the Clinique counter,

frosted coral lipstick and soft beige foundation.

Even though I know how expensive they are,

I ask for them anyway – the pink overalls

and the new topsiders.  She makes it work.

She takes all of me.

The betrayal and lies,

the confusion and disarray,

innocence slips in dark shadows,

my secrets spill like rain.

She takes all of me,

holds and listens,

eyes blue pools,

radical acceptance.

She takes all of me.

The hours on a leather sofa,

piles of homework and the constant

ring of my phone.

The music, the volume, the chaos. 

She takes it all. 

Always meets me

as me,

before an age,

before an era.

They leave me in an eleven story dorm room.

They leave me and drive through garlic fields

and the vacuous heat of Central California,

leave me and go  home.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever be the same. 

All of me wants to be in the backseat of

that blue Honda.  All of me feels empty

and alone without her.

She takes all of me.

I come back, ease into adulthood,

settle in a little guest cottage,

yellow walls and a fridge full of food

I don’t have to buy.

She takes all of me

when I come home covered in

blood and briars,

lost for hours, I stray

from the trail,

look out alone at the lights of the city,

wonder when I’ll see her again.

She takes all of me as I announce I’m

moving to the mountains,

another leap of faith,

a man to marry and

pies at the wedding.

On the video, her toast is my favorite bit,

how beautiful she looks,

how proud I’ve always been of her,

all wit and intelligence and grace.

She takes all of me,  

 waits for the contractions to start,

the dry July heat,

sits and sits in a waiting room,

knitting and books.

All day I move through my endorphin haze,

the red sleigh bed and hot tub jets and

the girl flies from me

just like that.

It is so clear her face,

how amazed and how perfect,

all the worry a wash

in those sticky little limbs,

the vermix and blood.

She can sleep easy.

Finally.

And tonight,

I take all of her,

out of bed again,

says she can’t sleep.

She rests on my chest and we

read another book,

her curls matted,

a halo of golden frizz,

eyes red from exhaustion,

the blue like you.

I’m frustrated and speak sharp at first

and then remember

take all of her,

take all of her,

every single day.

Take all of her. 

Happy Birthday, sweet mama.  What a wonder you are.